‘CHILDREN, CHILDREN, CHILDREN! COME TO PAPA SALVATINO! COME BEFORE THE NIGHT CREEPERS AND THE GHOST WORMS SNIFF YOU OUT, COME BEFORE THE DEVIL GETS BEHIND YOU WITH HIS SHINBONE CLUB AND SMACKS YOU LOW. YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT! YOU KNOW YOU GONNA COME, CHILDREN! YOU GOTTA COME! ‘CAUSE MY VOICE GONNA SNEAK LIKE SMOKE THROUGH THE CRACK IN YOUR WINDOW, CURL UP YOUR STAIR AND IN YOUR EAR, AND HOOK YOU, CROOK YOU, BEND YOU ON YOUR KNEE TO JEEESUS! YES CHILDREN, YES
A furious, thumping music compounded of sax, organs and drums built up under the voice, which continued to cajole and jolly the crowd; they streamed into the entrance, and the tent glowed richly brown against the blackness of field and sky. As Donnell and Jocundra hesitated, a police car pulled up next to the field and flashed, its spotlight over the rows of parked cars; they joined the stragglers walking towards the tent.
At the entrance a mousy girl asked them for three dollars each admission, and when Jocundra balked, she smacked her gum and said, ‘We used to do with just love offerin’s, but Papa fills folk so brimful of Jesus’ love that sometimes they forgets all about givin’.’
Inside, radiating outward from a plywood stage, were rows of folding chairs occupied by shadowy figures, most standing, hooting and clapping to the music. The mingled odors of sweat and liquor and perfume, the press of bodies, the slugging music, everything served to disorient Donnell. He squeezed Jocundra’s hand, fending off a visual shift.
‘And lo!’ a voice shouted in his ear. ‘The blind and the halt shall be first anointed.’ A gray-haired man, tall and lean, his hair cut short above the ears and left thick on top, giving him a stretched look, beamed at Donnell. ‘We’ll get you a seat down front, brother,’ he said, steering him toward the stage. Jocundra objected, and he said, ‘No trouble at all, sister. No trouble at all.’ His smile seemed the product of a wise and benign overview.
As he led them along, people staggered out of their chairs and into the aisle. Deranged squawks, angry shouts, and scuffles, a few cries of religious fervor. A Saturday-night-in-the-sticks-and-ain’t-nothin’-else-to-do level of drunkenness. Hardly sanctified. Donnell was grateful when the usher shooed two teenagers off the first row and sat him down beside a fat lady. ‘Ain’t it hot?’ she cried, nudging him with a dimpled arm the size of a ham. “Bout hot enough to melt candles!’ The edges of the crimson hibiscus patterning her dress were bleeding from her sweat, and each crease and fold of her exuded its own special sourness. ‘Oh, Jesus yes!’ she screeched as the saxophonist shrilled a high note. She quivered all over, and her eyelids slid down, false lashes stitching them to her cheeks.
The music ebbed, the organist stamped out a plodding beat on the bass pedals, and the saxaphonist played a gospel fanfare. The lights cut to a single spot, and a paunchy, balding man, well over six feet tall, slouched onto stage. His walk was an invitation to buy drugs, to slip him twenty and meet the little lady upstairs; his face was yellow-tinged, puffy, framed by a hippie-length fringe of brown hair. He wore a powder-blue suit, a microphone dangled from his hand, and his eyes threw back glitters of the spotlight.
‘CHILDREN, CHILDREN, CHILDREN,’ he rasped. ‘ARE YOU READY FOR PAPA’S LOVE?’
There were hysterical Yesses in response, a scatter of Nos, and one ‘Fuck you, Papa!’
He laughed. ‘WELL, THEM THAT SAY YEA, I AIN’T WORRIED ‘BOUT THEM. AND AS FOR THE REST, YOU GONNA LEARN THAT OL’ PAPA’S JUST LIKE POTATO CHIPS AND LOVIN’. YOU CAN’T DO WITH JUST ONE HELPIN’!’ He bowed his head and walked along the edge of the stage, deep in thought. ‘I’M HERE TO TELL YOU I’M A SINNER. DON’T YOU NEVER LET NO PREACHER TELL YOU HE AIN’T! HELL, THEY’S THE WORST KIND.’ He shook his head, rueful; then, suddenly animated, he dropped into a crouch, and his delivery became rapid-fire. ‘BUT IN HIS INFINITE COMPASSION THE LORD JESUS HAS FILLED ME WITH THE SPIRIT, AND I AIN’T TALKIN’ ‘BOUT THE IMMATERIAL, PIE-IN-THE-SKY, SOMETHIN’-YOU-GOTTA-HAVE-FAITH-IN SPIRIT! NOSIR! I’M TALKIN’ BOUT THE REACHABLE, TOUCHABLE, GRABAHOLD-OF-YOU-AND-MAKE-YOU-FEEL-AGREEABLE POWER OF GOD’S LOVE!’
Faint Praise Gods and Hallelujahs; the crowd rustled; the fat lady raised her hands overhead, palms up, praying silently.
‘I’M TALKIN’ ‘BOUT THE SAME SPIRIT THAT SOON ONE MORNIN’S GONNA LIFT US ON ANGELS’ WINGS INTO THE LIGHT OF THE RAPTURE WHERE WE WILL LIVE IN ECSTASY ‘TIL HIS EARTHLY KINGDOM IS SECURE HALLELUJAH!’
‘Hallelujah!’ chorused the crowd. Donnell was beginning to relax, his senses settling; he stretched out his legs, preparing to be bored. Papa Salvatino paced the stage: a downcast, troubled man. The organ rippled out an icy trill.
‘OH, CHILDREN, CHILDREN, CHILDREN! I SEE THE PATHS BY WHICH YOU’VE TRAVELED GLEAMIN’ IN MY MIND’S EYE. SLIMY SERPENT TRACKS! YOU BEEN DOWN IN THE MUCK OF SHALLOW LIVIN’ AND FALSE EMOTION SO LONG YOU’RE TOO SICK FOR PREACHIN’!’ He pointed to the fat lady beside Donnell. ‘YOU THERE, SISTER RITA! I SEE YOUR SIN SHININ’ LIKE PHOSPHOR ON A STUMP!’ He pointed to others of the crowd, accusing them, and as his gaze swept over Donnell, his yellow face, gemmed with those glittering eyes, was as malevolent as a troll’s.
‘BUT IT AIN’T TOO LATE, SINNERS! THE LORD’S GIVIN’ YOU ONE LAST CHANCE. HE’LL EVEN GET DOWN IN SATAN’S DIRT AND TEMPT YOU. HE’S OFFERIN’ YOU A ONE-TIME-ONLY-GUARANTEED - YOUR - SOUL - BACK - IF - YOU -AIN’T-SATISFIED TASTE OF SALVATION! AND I’M HERE TO GIVE YOU THAT TASTE! THAT SOUL-STIRRIN’ TASTE OF HOSANNAH-IN-THE-HIGHEST AMBROSIA! ‘CAUSE EVEN IF HE CAN’T SAVE YOU, THE LORD JESUS HIMSELF WANTS YOU TO HAVE BIG FUN TONIGHT DOWN ON THE BAYOU!’
The crowd was on its feet, waving its arms, shouting.
‘YOU WANT THAT TASTE, CHILDREN?’
‘Yes!’
‘WHAT’S THAT YOU WANT?’
‘A taste!’ called the organist, prompting the crowd, and they hissed raggedly, ‘A taste!’ The saxophone brayed, the drummer bashed out a shuffle beat, and the organist unleashed a wash of chords. Papa Salvatino shed his jacket. ‘AMEN!’ he shouted.
‘Amen!’
Donnell turned and saw open-mouthed, flushed faces, rolling eyes; people were shouldering each other aside, poising to rush the stage.
‘THY WILL BE DONE!’ Papa leapt high and came down in a split, gradually humping himself upright, and did a little shimmy like a snake standing on its tail. ‘I WANT THE SICK ONES FIRST AND THE WHOLE ONES LAST! ALL RIGHT, CHILDREN! COME TO PAPA!’
The crowd boiled toward the stage, bumping Donnell’s chair, and once again the gray-haired usher loomed before him. He helped Donnell up. Jocundra pried at his grip, protesting, and Donnell struggled: but the usher held firm and said, ‘You come with him if you want, sister. But I ain’t lettin’ you stand in the path of this boy’s salvation.’
After much shoving, many Biblically phrased remonstrations directed at people who would not move aside, the usher secured a choice spot in line for Donnell, fourth behind Sister Rita and a thin, drab woman with her arm draped around a teenage boy, a hydrocephalic. He grinned stuporously at Donnell. His hair was slicked down, pomaded, a mother’s idea of good grooming; but the effect was of a grotesque face painted on a balloon. He let his head roll around, his grin broadening, enjoying the dizzy sensation. A pearl of saliva formed at the corner of his mouth.